I have begun writing an opening chapter for my obsessive-rereading memoir. I will add nothing to it today because I will be doing something or other with my parents: probably drinking coffee will be a major activity, and I can safely say we will not be bowling.
Still working my way through Byatt's A Children's Book, which I hope to talk about here eventually.
But what I am really doing now is, per usual, sitting at the kitchen table and procrastinating about starting animal chores. Outside it's barely raining. Hunters are shooting at deer, the rooster is crowing, and I am writing this letter to you. I don't seem to have very much to say, yet I write it anyway. The words trickle out, like a faucet with a drip.
Anyway, I am thinking of you, and hoping that you are having a day that involves no shopping malls, unless you are the sort of person who likes malls or looks forward to composing an entertaining anthropological treatise on your experience there.